When all Hope is Lost
by Order and Chaos - Qui Iudicant
Summary: Why do we fight when all is lost...? Why do we resist when we are on the edge of defeat? Why do we stubbornly soldier on despite the odds against us? Former Senator Lux Bonteri also asks these questions as he battles a foe well-nigh impossible to defeat. "Why do we fight... even when we are losing?" (One-Shot)


A/N: One-Shot.

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**_When all Hope is Lost..._**

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_**Breathe_—_**_**Two Steps From Hell_—_**(AmazonMP3, Spotify, YouTube, iTunes)

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><p><em><strong>Many are the strange chances of the world... and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.<strong>_

Rain sleets down, a vast watery blanket covering the blasted field in mud. Flashes of light flare before my eyes. My HUD blackens out momentarily whenever one is too close, but still, the after-image remains for a time. My audio receptors crackle with static, filled with garbled communications and screams. My visual receptors fare no better—only the holographic statistics of my MOLINJOR-VII armor glow before my teary eyes, and even they flicker.

The myriad noises of battle, of laser-and-bullet fire, of cannons, the _thump-thump _of concussions from missiles, of grenades, of bombs—all conspire to dazzle and confuse my senses. I can smell acrid smoke despite my olfactory-filters; feel the heat of a burning crater not too far off, even through this armor; and distinctly taste the foulness of that disgusting blend of mud, blood, and guts, even though I hadn't taken off my helmet since the opening of this battle.

I open my eyes after the glare of that last explosion fades away. The ground, a strange combination of purple, brown, and pale-green, hovers and shifts before my eyes as if in a dream. Blood and guts cover my helmet, droplets trickle down the blasplate. Then they turn black and crinkle backwards as the mini force-field burns them off. Soon my view is clear.

I had turned to my left moments earlier while shooting at a distant foe—just in time to see a missile land in cluster of human, Sangheili, Unggoy, Jiralhanae, Twi'lek, Zabrack, Wookiee, and Rodian soldiers not far off; and the resulting shock-wave had swept over me, knocking me off my feet. Fragments now land all around the perimeter of the bomb-crater.

I look away, mercifully thanking the down-pouring rain for hiding the grisly remains. Too many have died in this war, and many more shall yet die before it is over—but who will win?

From where I lie, partially at rest, partially in readiness, I can see everything. The burning hulk of an AT-TE lies on its left side a little ways ahead to my right, its long Mass-Driver Cannon in a twisted, melted heap and partly detached—the massive gash in its armor where the sword had finally downed it was all too visible. Before me lie numerous dead and burnt bodies among the fallen husks of trees, some my brothers-in-arms, some battle droids of various makes (I can see both B-1 and B-2 hulks lying twisted everywhere)—others the dark shapes of the enemy. To my left I see a few AATs, droid tanks of the Clone Wars, lie burning also—only they look as if a giant's child has thrown them away in a fit of anger.

_Murderous bastards,_ I think dully, my words not feeling right on my tongue. It was no use cursing them—how can one hate an enemy that is... emotionless?

I placed both arms in the ground, feeling it give way, shaking despite my short rest, and slowly stand. The armor had done its work, just as the technician had assured me. But even it was being pushed to the limit—an inferior variant of the Spartan MOLINJOR armors, despite its class. But it was all we had, the only thing for human and near-human species to survive. I look around, recovering from the blast. Fires, big and small, rage out of control in the battle field, obscuring all signs of combat, but through the smoke I can see the shapes of my running fellows cut down by the score. My foot nudges something on the ground. I look, and lean down a moment later to pick up my fallen Storm Rifle.

I stand now, a monolith against the unstable ground. The armor takes its time to reboot from the devastating shock wave from that space-borne missile—the A.I. had shut down long ago to conserve power and to better manage my life-guard. I did not get the chance to know it, and perhaps I never will. But that was irrelevant. _We'll all die, sooner or later. _I muse, still in a daze; the world still spins around me.

A myriad beeping alerts me. The armor has revitalized. I shoulder my weapon and begin to plod forward, looking for a Phantom to show up so I can kill it. But even as I move, I keep a wary eye out for them, too. These were strange beings, even more mysterious than the so-called Promethean Knights of Covenant lore. Taller than the average human being, digitigrade-legged, stronger, both physically and mentally, and armed and armored with alien technologies beyond both Forerunner and Celestial dreams, the Phantoms were terrible in battle—and yet only the merest of the enemy infantry troops. However, a high-powered shot from most heavy weaponry could down them—but not destroy them completely...

A shape suddenly materializes.

I turn swiftly, my lethargy leaving my bones through sudden fear, and aim my weapon; the shape lines up in my sights.

_CRACK-BANG!_

The Spider falls backwards, tumbling over a hillock or some rubble, incapacitated. I fire twice more before it could regain its footing—or use its mini-rocket launchers mounted on its back. Despite the name, they were shaped like Nexu, only with eight legs, silver-and-black armored, and utterly robotic. The lights fade from its twenty eyes. I fire once more to make sure; its lashing "tail" drops motionless.

A swishing sound behind alerts me. I turn and throw up an arm at the same time.

_BOOM!_

I move two feet backwards from the sword blow, the arm-mounted energy-shield activating just in time to prevent my bisection. The alien metal has some sort of violent reaction with plasmic-energy, but whatever it is, it does not faze the enemy. The explosion of light and sound disorient me, but my HUD reacts quickly. The darkness soon disappears and I see a Phantom.

The skull-faced thing—no creature in existence has a skull like _that_, all horned and spiky—prepares for another blow, rain sleeting off its dull metallic body. My eyes follow the sword instinctively, light reflecting off its brilliant edge. Like a lightsaber it could cut through everything—unlike a lightsaber it treated Mandalorian iron and suchlike materials in the same manner. No metals had been discovered which could stop it—except those the invaders brought with them—but energy shields, such as the one I carry, were most effective. Only drawback is another blow and I'm finished.

The Phantom swings down—the blade strikes into the ground—but I roll through the blow, going underneath its thin legs and coming behind. I whirl in the same movement, press the trigger, and give it hell—Storm Rifles are notorious for destroying things with extreme prejudice. Two close range shots later the thing goes down, permanently. I struggle back onto my feet and turn to flee. No telling when it may or may not get up and I was not going to stick around.

I run towards a high point in the field. The smoke is enough to cover me. I hope.

Another explosion rocks the ground, nearly throwing me off-balance, but I keep going. Several dark shapes, screaming pitifully, go flying through the air—some over my head—from the alien missile. I knew they were ours, because the aliens do not scream, or beg, or cry for mercy. Another bright flash; then a screaming sound draws near—the infernal whine of a guided missile.

I throw myself to the ground.

It passes over me. Another explosion marks its arrival. More cries.

I stand again, start running again. My legs somehow refuse to be steady, threatening to knock me down. I put that down to the constant missile barrages.

It has been twenty years since the end of the Clone Wars, twenty years since the Covenant arrived, twenty years when combat had been much simpler. Back then it was clone armies versus droid hordes. The gangsters of the Outer Rim were of no problem. Back then politics had ruled the battle-field—all a soldier had to do was shoot; a Jedi, to lead his or her troops. The politicians took care of it, back in the good ol' days—and that was considered bad _then_. It wasn't until the death of Count Dookû, and much later, of General Grievous, did that war of chaos and politics end. Then came the Covenant, and everyone, including Senators like myself, prepared for another conflict. It was fortunate we did.

The Covenant had been on the run. Something had destroyed their galaxy—something had ensured no star would ever flare to life again in that region of the universe they _had _called home—and that something had come after them. They told us they had no idea of who, or what, it is. Their most powerful weapons, the so-called Halo Arrays—similar to Celestial spatial-architecture, like the near-mythical Centerpoint Station of Corellia—had been useless against them. Oh, of course many of the aliens were destroyed when they had been fired, just like they'd been designed to do; but only a minute fraction were vanquished—those not protected in the mobile battle-wagons they used for personal armor. It seemed they were a race of warriors, perpetually in readiness for battle. The Arrays had been obliterated, along with their galaxy, and the Covenant fled.

Now our home, _my _home, is under attack by these things—the Enemy, we called them. Nothing in our experience had prepared them for us. Not even the Flood, an "undead" menace well known during the Clone Wars, were like them.

I reach the high point, and the battle-field clears into sharp relief.

My heart sinks like a lump of durasteel as I gaze around in bemusement. _We are lost, _my befuddled mind tells me, but I do not hear it.

Craters pockmark the landscape, great clouds of smoke billow from them—acrid, toxic, and dangerous. Great clouds cover the skies, tinted red from the orbital bombardment, the Enemy's prelude to all battles. The sun could not be seen. Awesome mountains had once filled the skyline; now they are leveled. This is the remnants of cities and forests of an unknown world which once had a name. But this is not why I am suddenly afraid. It is not the landscape nor the ruins of Galactic civilization which strike in me the hopelessness of despair—it is the vast black bulk of the Enemy ships descending from outer space. This means only one thing.

There was no hope for us now. The fleet has fled, to Mandalore or Yavin, and we were all that's left.

I look down, tears obscuring my HUD. I blink to clear them away. I look at my rifle in my left hand. It was warm, a sign it was starting to overheat. I pull out a pistol I had used as a Senator on Carlac. It was slightly melted. I reach again and pull another weapon from inside its protective sheath, and hold it before me. It is the hilt of a lightsaber, thirty centimeters long, her gift to me. I hope to die with these in my hands—an ancient warrior's wish.

Then a screen on my HUD draws my attention. I look inward, blanking out the battle-field, the noises of battle, the smells, and the Enemy—everything but that screen.

"I am sorry, Ahsoka," I say in a near-whisper, looking at what is my last link to life. "Take care of our little girl, _cyar'ika_... I'll see you one day."

A Togrutan female, her mature montrals gleaming in the sunlight of a distant world that may be overrun for all I know, and a little three-month-old hybrid look back at me, smiling, a forgotten picture of sanity of a better world. Ahsoka looks radiant in a simple white dress Padmé had given her. It compliments her warrior's beauty. I am lucky to have her, and our little girl. Little Mina Bonteri holds my gaze a little longer, a sweet picture of innocence... _Such a beautiful girl, _I thought sadly. _Be safe, my little Mina. _

I send away the picture, fighting back the urge to break down and weep until some Phantom or Spider finds me. I will not die crying. I will fight, to defend what is left of my Galaxy from these foul things, and I will take as many as I can to the netherworld. For Ahsoka, and all those she loves... for Mina...

I back up until the hideous panorama is hidden over the lip of the small hill. _Make Ahsoka proud, _I thought, smiling a rare smile, my features unused to that gesture in years. Then I take off—running more swiftly than I ever have before—and hurtle the rise. I glide through the air, slowly turning in a somersault—I brandish my weapons, the heavy, two-handed Storm-Rifle, and the smaller lightsaber—and land in a cluster of Phantoms.

_CRACK-BOOM! _

_SNAP-HISS!—VROOM!—VOOM!_

_CRACK-BOOM!_

I fire wildly, giving into that battle-rage only a soldier can know, and begin a crazed charge. I blast the grinning face of one Phantom to my left into oblivion. Another I blow an arm off—moments later followed by an orange streak, several centimeters deep, through the chest. One, to my right, I incapacitate by slicing off the knee at the joint; it falls backwards into a crater. Soon I am no longer keeping track—I just keep firing and swinging.

One Phantom, having just drawn a sword, leaps before me—_CRACK-BOOM!_—and its head flies crazily through the air, followed by its still moving armored corpse, moments later.

I catch sight of a tall figure in the battle-field, its black cape moving as it strides through the shattered landscape—and I steer towards it. Another missile lands. I dive, turning forward in a somersault, and come up running again, undeterred. A signal to my right flashes—I turn to look briefly. A Phantom is dueling with a Sangheili, one I know very well.

Storm Elite Xytan dodges a slash—it just misses his head—and strikes back with his energy-sword. The Phantom reels, stumbling. Xytan follows it with a quick burst from his plasma weapon, a smaller hand-held variant. The Phantom is stunned, off-balance, and enough damage had been done in earlier combats for the Storm Elite to plunge his blade into its armored chest. Withdrawing he pushes it with his foot into a bomb crater, and whirls a moment later to defend his rear from the descending blade of a Reaper's scythe. They are similar enough to the Phantoms, yet armed with the long double-bladed energy-scythes which are deadly to all who meet them. Fierce foes in single combat, many Jedi, Knights and Masters alike, have fallen to their lightning skills.

I make no attempt to contact him for all of our friendship and neither would he. He was a born warrior, I a self-made one by circumstance—but we both knew the code. Distraction was costly. I move on.

Garbled communications crackle in my audio-receptors, but I ignore them.

The tall figure I saw earlier comes into focus, and my eyes widen. It was an Alien Commander, of the kind called Iron Ones, and it stands majestically against the the blood red sky. Burning on its chest was the symbol of the Enemy, a fiery cross. Behind it come the alien ships—black, forbidding, relentless, and utterly unstoppable.

I quicken my pace. I knew that if I could bring that thing down I would, at least, give my comrades some hope. If the fleet has not departed from this world yet then there might still be a chance for victory.

The biomechanical being does not see me until a nearby Phantom turns, its multi-jointed spine bending towards me. I automatically blast the ugly thing backwards, in pieces, but it is too late. The Iron One turns its armored face towards me slowly—and stretches out a long-fingered hand.

I hold out an arm, the one with the Storm-Rifle, and the energy shield springs to life.

A blaze of lightning, unholy and unnatural, shoots out and engulfs me. Warnings and alarms all scream to life—personal shields draining rapidly, systems shorting out, back-up systems becoming overwhelmed, servo-motors which help move my body shutting down—but I ignore them. I keep moving, despite the barrage. The armor has done this much for me—it has granted me abilities beyond ordinary strength—but it would not last.

I move my finger—a flash of light to my right, brighter than the lightning, flares up.

I reach the massive being, and swing, with all my might, the emerald lightsaber downwards. A longer blade, metallic grey, meets it.

_BOOM!_

I fly back, twisting and turning, and land hard on the unyielding ground. I quickly try to leap back on my feet, but a lash of pain shooting through my now-unresponsive armor forces me back down. My leg is broken. I crumple on one knee. The lightsaber hilt, Ahsoka's shorter blade, clatters away to rest beneath a Phantom leg. My back is exposed. The world fades in and out, from black to grey. The readouts shiver and blink, fighting to stay alive—or it could be my eyes. They turn off, then on again. Power is draining rapidly. I can feel the acid rain on my unprotected body; the armor is falling apart.

Time itself seems to be slowing down. I no longer hear anything—even the rumbles of missile-impacts are deadened. Instead I only hear my breathing and my heartbeat. The weight of the armor is pushing me down—nothing is supporting it...

As I prepare myself for death, I wonder, silently, what is it that made me attempt that suicidal move against an enemy I could not defeat. No one would remember me for it. No one would care. Ahsoka would not even know...

_I fight, _comes a little voice unbidden to my ear, _because it is all I can do. I will never bow to the aliens. Never. They can kill worlds, send empires running, but the one thing they will never do is break my will, my spirit. I fight because I am human, and am willing to die for it. I am willing to sacrifice myself for a better world..._

With one last effort I force my head up to look my enemy in the eye. The Iron One looms over me, sword by its side. The cape, which is its badge of office, flutters behind it in the passage of some distant zephyr kicked up by a missile or a ship. I close my eyes...

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The Iron One prepares to kill the soldier. It has seen countless executions before, done many itself, but does not remember any of them—time, nor its passage, has had any impression on it. The blade, fashioned of an unknown metal, gleams in the light of a dying world as it is lifted up—then suddenly it moves sideways in defense.

Xytan, nearly the being's equal in height and size, leaps over the kneeling man like a tusk-cat, and tackles the thing with both arms in a mighty blow. The sword flies from the Iron One's hand and lands in a place unknown. They roll on the ground head-over-feet, wrestling—then the Sangheili is kicked off. He lands a few feet in front of his shield-comrade, then stands to defend him.

The Iron One also arises, its eyes glowing red. It is not anger. Such emotions were unknown to its brand of the Alien Commander. But this being before it was a distraction and distractions must be dealt with. Its hands start to crackle with a suppressed force. Blue-and-purple light begin to show. It lifts its digits at the Storm Elite.

Xytan quickly reacts. He charges it again, this time with a little sphere in each hand, and rams into the biomechanical being, pushing it backwards. This time they do not go down—the alien has height and strength on its side, and furthermore the element of surprise has been lost. The lightning forming on the alien's finger-tips course through the Sangheili's body in spite of the personal shielding. The skeleton of the Elite appears through the Covenant armor.

At last he cannot take it, and breaks away. Xytan's armor, once a silvery blue (though obscured by ash), is now a dull blackened-grey; spots of the original color remain, but those are faded. The Sangheili breaks into a feeble grin, silently defying the Iron One and all that it represents, then quickly turns away.

The biomechanical being is, for lack of a better word to describe an emotion that is non-existent in its species' psyche, confused by the Elite's smile. It looks down, something akin to circuitry or nervous-system sending a signal.

The two plasma spheres, stuck onto the Iron One's armor, reach the end of the countdown.

_BOOM!_

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I hear the explosion distantly. Another missile has landed. I can feel the vibrations pulsing through my feet, through my tired bones. I wait for oblivion. Instead the ground disappears beneath my feet. I feel as if I am falling... falling... falling... My chest bangs against something hard—moments later it scraps on another something, like metal or rock. My arms swing freely.

_The missile has hit close to me, _I thought. _I am flying through the air, tumbling downward, and am about to land in the foot of a crater. _How ignoble my death will become. I expected to die defiant before the alien. Instead it has opted to use another means to kill me rather than personally deal the blow. It does not matter to them; killing was killing, regardless of how it is done. Yet I feel... distantly, but still, I feel disappointed—even angry—that it wouldn't even grant me the dignity of dying on my feet before it...

The illusion of space still clings to me as I drift down the crater—then I feel being laid down on something pliable. There is no rubble poking into my back. _How odd._

I hear voices... my parents?

My eyes flutter open—crimson skies meet them. _Huh, _I think tiredly, _the afterlife is not what it is cracked up to be. _How disappointing. It is just like, or close enough, to the battle-field. Then I feel a breath of wind on my face—it is tinged with smoke, of burning metal, plastic, and flesh. Acrid too. I cough. Then something plastic and confining is placed over me.

_The battle-field..._

My head turns to the side.

The open-air passenger-compartment of an LAAT/i greets me. A model of gunship during the Clone Wars, it is woefully outdated in this war, but useful still. Medics cluster around me, hooking wires, tubes, and other strange contraptions to my armorless body...

_Wait! _

My senses suddenly come back to me. I try to rise but a medic pushes me down.

"Easy, Bonteri," he says distantly, "you've suffered a concussion. You need your rest."

_A concussion... _The words come faintly, but I retain enough sense to hear them. _Huh, it makes sense,_ I think remotely. My mind is still disoriented. A gas starts to filter through my breath-mask. I am falling asleep—perhaps it wasn't a dream and I _am_ in the next world?

Then I catch a few words. "... You have done a wonderful job, Commander Xytan. Mrs. Bonteri will be happy you saved him," the medic is saying to someone out of my vision. "But why?"

"I do my duty to my shield-brothers," rumbles the Sangheili. "I did what I could." He moves into my view of vision, and rests a large hand on my bare chest. It is cool. "Rest easy, brother," he says from far away. "Recover now. The battle is not over..." He lifts his hand away. The coolness does not leave.

A thirty-centimeter baton lies before me. _Ahsoka... _I clutch wildly at it—how did he...?

Drugs take their hold on me. I fall into a deep sleep, assured that I am alive, still clutching the hilt with a death-grip—but disappointed I am not dead.

But before I fade into the land of sleep, I see two faces... _Ahsoka Tano Bonteri... and little Mina Bonteri... _

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A/N: Music is part of what brings a story to life. The first time I listened to **_Breathe _**by **Two Steps From Hell **I knew I had to write down what I felt. Inspiration comes from a YouTube video by **_EpicMusicVn _**with that soundtrack; "Armies of Exigo Cinematic, Halo War Cinematic" were the clips.

For my thoughts on the Star Wars canon, it does not matter if it is Expanded Universe (EU) or Star Wars: Rebels and future EU. Neither does it bother me that Disney owns it. Star Wars is Star Wars.

Your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and comments are all valued, even on One-Shots such as this. I may not be returning to _A Flame in the Darkness _but I hope this will remind you that I've not forgotten it. A new fic in replacement of it will come. That I promise you.

Cheerio.


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